Edge of the Heat 6 (13 page)

Army Specialist Steve Moran sat at the end of the tiny room, in his army-issue chair, in front of the tiny desk, facing the normal-sized monitors, keyboards, phones, and radar sensors. Al-Goraam, the multinational peacekeeping base he had been stationed at for five months, kept all of its air traffic control and dispatching equipment in this one tiny room. The base didn't need anything larger. Nothing ever happened here. All the soldiers at the tiny base were supposed to do was watch. They were an observation unit, basically there to make sure that Egypt and Israel didn't start blowing the shit out of each other, and if they ever did the United States knew about it as quickly as possible. But they had no real mission outside of the observation. Their ammunition depot was as tiny as this little room and always locked. Steve hadn’t seen a fucking M-16 since he got out of training. Normally they only had one helicopter, a tiny (like the base) but deadly (unlike the base) MH-6. Maximum capacity at Al-Goraam MPB was 36 soldiers from all over the world, and one base commander.

Today though, besides the MH-6, they had a massive Black Hawk helicopter sitting on the tarmac. A Black Hawk from Camp Patriot that  was on some super secret mission. The mission couldn't be too big of a deal though, Steve knew, because of the five civilians sitting on chairs behind him. Nobody drops five fucking civilians in the air traffic control room, where they can see everything, and then goes out and does something important.

Steve twirled in his chair, boredom flowing off of him in waves. He'd been here for what seemed like an eternity now, and even this pathetic action was more action than he usually saw. And what pissed him off even more was three quarters of his unit, his
observation
unit, had been pulled out of here a week ago to support the uprising in Syria until troops could arrive from all over the world, leaving only him and 4 other soldiers on base as a skeleton crew to keep the fucking spiders and snakes from taking over. And had he wanted to go? Yes he had. Anything to shake up the old routine and get him some real fucking action. If he returned stateside without one real fucking story to tell … well he didn’t know if he’d still have a girlfriend.

He thought of Sally Ann and grimaced, not even knowing he was doing it. Tall, legs forever, and beautiful country-girl breasts, she’d never given him a second look, until he’d joined the Army. Then she’d accepted his invitation to go out on a few dates, since it was only two weeks till he shipped out. But she still hadn’t let him get past second base. He had high hopes that once he came home she’d see things differently.

But when she wrote and asked if he'd shot anyone yet, and he'd written back that he hadn't even held a gun since he left training she didn't write again for over a month. And her newest letter was a lot cooler than the first couple had been.  And that's when he started making stuff up. His cheeks burned at some of the things she thought he was going through. She even thought he’d be getting a purple heart.

A purple heart, ha! That was a good one. The only way to get a purple heart at fucking Al-Goraam was by tripping on the fucking tarmac, or maybe falling off the helicopter if you climbed up top to clean it.

Steve ignored his burning cheeks and cocked his feet up on the desk, eyeballing the civilians talking at the other end of the room. At least he had some scenery today. The two chicks were hot. He was partial to the brunette, even though she looked too old for him. He watched her closely, waiting for a chance to make eye contact. Maybe she liked younger meat.

When she didn’t look at him after several minutes he got bored again. His eyes wandered out the larger window to the tarmac instead. Chief Warrant Officer Ames and his crew chief were looking over the Black Hawk idly. They’d been out there long enough to run through their checklist 5 or 6 times already, but they were waiting for a signal. When they got it they would take off. They were going to pull somebody out of the desert. Some lady CIA agent or something. Lord knows what she was doing out there —  normally no one went in the desert unless they wanted to eat and crap sand for a week. Steve's job was to wait for her signal and let Ames know when it came. Oh, and his other job was to call in the cavalry if the shit hit the fan – not that he had anyone to call, with his entire unit gone. He’d have to call the Australian unit at the tiny airport on the edge of the desert, or maybe the guys at Camp Patriot. But most of Camp Patriot was in Syria for a few more days too. Or he could roust Captain Johansen. Captain Johansen worked night duty last night and was a bitch to wake up, but supposedly he knew how to fly the MH-6, even if it wasn’t what he normally did. Ah well, no reason to worry about it. Steve was sure it would be a quick in and out and then he could go back to watching the fucking paint dry.

Numbers flashed across Steve’s DET-screen, catching his attention. It wasn't the signal he was waiting for, but Steve concentrated on it anyway, just for something to do. It was coordinates. The Chief hadn't said anything about coordinates. The Chief had acted like he knew exactly where the lady was already, so why would he need coordinates? And who were these coordinates going to? Steve read the entire message through twice. At the end of the coordinates had been a radius — almost like she was calling in an air strike.
That's strange
, Steve thought.

After a moment’s indecision Steve picked up the radio. Ames was a grumpy fucker and Steve didn’t want to deal with him any more than he had to, but this smelled funny. "Chief? Your signal didn't come yet, but … well, you ought to see this."

"Check."

Crap
. The Chief sounded pissed off already. He strolled into the room, not sparing the civilians a glance. He walked up to the screen, read the message, and then stared at Steve with open irritation. "What? She’s sending the coordinates to the Navy. Let me know when my signal comes." He stormed out. Steve narrowed his eyes. The Navy? Why did the Navy, the closest unit probably a battleship sitting 50 miles offshore, need to know her coordinates?

Steve glanced at the civilians again to see if the hot brunette had noticed how important he was, but
crap
, she didn’t look like she remembered her own name, much less that Steve existed. She was lip-locked with one of the tall dudes, like he was going to war and she was going to be left alone for a decade. Steve watched them openly, his mind drifting to Sally and wishing she would kiss him like that.

The brunette and the dude broke apart finally, and the dude strode out the tarmac and jumped in the helicopter, first putting on a flight suit over his jeans and shirt and then sitting in one of the gunner’s seats and going over another fucking pre-flight checklist. Steve shook his head. This just kept getting weirder and weirder. Maybe that one wasn’t a civilian after all.

Steve's console started beeping. Two short beeps and one long beep.. That was the signal. He depressed the microphone button. "Hey Chief, it's your signal."

"Roger."

The team on the helicopter started to scramble, everyone jumping in their seats, pressing buttons, and stowing gear.

The rotors turned slowly, then faster, and a voice came over the radio. Not the Chief. It must be his co-pilot. Steve had never seen the co-pilot up close and didn’t know his rank. "Golf 62, are we clear?"

"Roger," Steve said. Of course they were fucking clear. There wasn’t another helicopter or airplane for 200 fucking miles.

“Golf 62, heading out.”

“Roger Golf 62, I have your time at 1343.”

He marked the helicopter as away with the click of his finger, not even taking his feet off the desk. He watched the rotors speed up and lift the helicopter off the ground, then the nose tilt forward and the tail tip up as it headed out into the desert. He watched until it was a tiny dark spot, and then he let his eyes close. Maybe he should look and see what the brunette was doing.

An alarm sounded in the room and Steve's eyes flew open. He'd never heard that alarm outside of training before. Was it a malfunction? He looked at the radar screen and saw that it wasn't. Three blips flew across the screen exactly abreast of each other.
It can’t be
, Steve thought. But it was. It had to be.

Steve’s feet hit the ground with a thud. He could feel the eyes of the civilians on his back. Fuck them. He should order each of them out of here right now.

Instead, he grabbed the microphone and shouted into it. "Chief, Chief we've got missiles incoming!" He did a few quick calculations on paper and spit out the trajectory to the Chief.

Out of all responses that could've come back over the radio, Steve expected the one he got least of all. Disgust lacing his voice, the chief came back, "Did anyone tell you what this mission was about, Trooper?"

"Negative, Sir."

Steve could hear the sigh in the warrant officer's voice when he spoke again. "Well I can’t tell you over the air. But you have to know. Ask the civilians."

The transmission broke, leaving Steve grasping for meaning.
The civilians? They knew and he didn’t?
And then one more sentence, the threat in it clear. "And no more chatter about the Mikes." Steve blinked in confusion and then realized the Chief probably meant the missiles. So he’d fucked up by mentioning them on the radio.

Steve whirled in his chair and focused his eyes on the four people behind him. One of them stood and spoke up, a guy with short, blond hair who was almost a foot taller than Steve himself.

"You know the hostages that the NIB is threatening to murder? There is a mission going on right now to free them from the compound they’re in. The helicopter is going to pick them up from the desert. The missiles are part of their cover. There’ll be more of them.”

Steve nodded and settled back in his chair towards the screen. Saving the hostages? The Marine and the reporter? Why the fuck hadn’t anybody told him about it? Steve got serious. This was important shit. This could even make the news. And he was right in the fucking middle of it.
Oh Sally Ann was going to put out for sure if she saw him on TV!

Steve started recording everything in his log. The missiles, the helicopter trajectory, who was on the helicopter, and who was in the room with him. He turned around, about to ask for their names, when a another alarm sounded.
Oh fuck what now?
he groaned.

He spun back to his table, his heart lurching. He checked all of his indicators and lights, moving his eyes in a triangle across the displays but nothing was flashing. So what was the alarm coming from?

The radio! Steve focused on the radio speaker, his eyebrows threatening to recede into his hairline. The alarm sound was coming through the radio. The mic in the helicopter was open. And then Chief Warrant Officer Ames spilled out a torrent of words that made Steve's blood freeze in his veins.

"We’re hit, we’re hit, surface to air missile. We're going down. No engine power. Auto rotating six seconds to impact God help us."

Steve grabbed his pen in his hand, but all he could think to do was write
we’re hit
in his logbook. Suddenly, he would have given anything to be bored again.

Emma watched the man in army fatigues in front of her go completely tense. She didn’t blame him. Her own body felt suddenly as rigid as a board. Next to her, Vivian pulled on her arm and asked frantically, "What happened? What's going on? I couldn't understand the man on the radio."

Emma didn't want to tell her sister that the helicopter holding her husband had just crashed. Emma looked at Craig and saw what she thought her own face must look like. Terror, and trepidation, with a side of shock. Craig obviously had understood what the pilot had said. Her eyes met Jerry's. Jerry’s white face said he had understood too.

But Vivian, Vivian was the one here who had the most to lose. Hawk was her entire life. Emma glanced at the Army specialist in front of her again. He seemed frozen in place. Suddenly he moved like a wind up doll. He stood up and glanced around the room in a kind of uncontrolled fright. Then he grabbed up the microphone and yelled into it “Golf 62, Golf 62 come back. Are you there?"

Nothing. The radio was completely silent. Dead, you might say. Emma pushed the word
dead
out of her mind and stood up. Never had she felt so helpless in her entire life. She was a medic and she should be helping everyone on that helicopter right now. But where was it? And how could she get there? She couldn't. She looked out the window at the small helicopter on the tarmac.
Someone had to fly her out there
.

The man in army fatigues in front of her laid on the radio again, practically screaming “Golf 62 are you there?” He grabbed a black binder off the shelf and flipped aggressively through the pages.

Craig ran up to him. “Send someone out there to help them!” Craig yelled.

The man looked at him, his eyes flat and frightened. “I don't have anyone to send,” he almost whispered.

“There’s got to be someone who can fly that helicopter,” Craig said, pointing wildly out the window. “We have to do something! Find a pilot! Any pilot!”

Vivian watched this little scene and then grabbed at Emma's shoulder again. “Oh God, did the helicopter go down? Did the helicopter crash?”